What was he thinking leaving me here without him? What was he thinking taking the easy way out?

It’s hard to love.

It’s hard to live.

It’s hard to keep one’s courage and optimism . . . to keep believing when life slams into you, wave after wave of pain and disappointment. I know. I’ve been underwater for months here, and yet I just keep swimming and swimming even though my eyes and throat and nose burn with salt and the sharp tang of love lost. Love gone.

But how to stop swimming? How to give up?

There’s no part in me willing to accept defeat. Silence.

What kind of message would that be? What kind of woman would I be to quit now just because it’s hard?

Of course it’s hard! It’s life. It’s not a carnival ride. It’s not something one signs up for. It’s something you’re thrust into.

“He was a nice young man,” my dad says from behind me. “I liked him.”

I press my lips together and squeeze my eyes tight, holding all my emotions in. Dad means well. He’s trying to comfort me. He’s trying . . .

And yet it suddenly enrages me that he’s waited all these years to reach out to me. That all these months when I’m down in Scottsdale trying to carry on that he doesn’t feel any need to connect with me, or comfort me. He’s just assumed that I’m fine. He’s assumed I’ll manage.

And yes, I’m managing. But my God it hurts.

And I’m lonely. And scared.

Scared that I’ll always feel this way. Numb. Dead.

Angry.

I dig deep, bearing down on the anger, pressing it down, burying it where it can’t hurt me. Or Dad. I don’t want to be rude to Dad but I’m so confused. He’s spent his whole life immersed in his work and his thoughts and interests. He had thirty years to learn to love me and he never bothered to do it very well.

He could take care of all those animals but he couldn’t take care of me.

He couldn’t find time to spend with me.

But no sooner do I feel the anger, than I’m consumed by guilt.

I shouldn’t need more than I do. I shouldn’t need anything more than what I’ve got. I shouldn’t expect anything at all.